


Twice Two

by EllieL



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-15
Updated: 2006-06-15
Packaged: 2019-09-17 16:34:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16978116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieL/pseuds/EllieL
Summary: A few small steps can lead to radical changes





	Twice Two

****  
 _"...twice-two-makes-four is not life, gentlemen. It is the beginning of death. At least, man seems always to have been afraid of this twice-two-makes-four, and I am afraid of it now."_  
-Fydor Dostoevsky, "Notes from the Underground," 1864  
****  
  
Had you told me even a year ago that my life would be mere routine, I would have scoffed in disbelief. Yet we are in town on a Friday, ordering lunch from SoHo Market to go eat in the Smithsonian's Sculpture Garden, just like every other fair-weathered Friday we've been in town in the past six months. We still order from SoHo in foul weather, too, but we must make desks do as benches do.  
  
It is safe, I suppose, this routine of ours. These are easily brushed off as working lunches, just as the phone call at 10:30 PM each Saturday is always to double-check some useless fact or confirm flight information for Monday morning. It's not personal at all, just a routine we've fallen into.  
  
I've never been one for routine nor, as my partner might claim, for reason. I was terrible at math as a child because I could never accept that two and two always made four. Surely somewhere, somehow, that had to have other answers. Later in school, I delighted to learn about negatives, which vindicated me in proving that sometimes two and two could be zero. The social sciences always held more appeal, with their myriad of answers and possibilities. What made one serial killer tick does not another serial killer make. There's a method to the madness of course, but it's also a lot of intuition and instinct.  
  
So how have I become mired in this routine? How have I allowed us to settle into her pace? She loves routine, definitive answers, hard science. She would go on infinitely in this safe rut if I let her, because that leap to the unknown terrifies her.  
  
From the phone where she is calling in our order, she silences and catches my eye. "Whole wheat or rye?"  
  
For the longest moment I fail to comprehend. Then I draw a breath and take the exhilarating plunge into the unknown. "Hang up the phone."  
  
She looks startled now, freezing for a time before mumbling "never mind" into the receiver. Even acquiescing, she stares at me as if I'd lost my mind.  
  
Don't worry, I haven't. I've found it. "We're not doing anything here. Let's go to Zed."  
  
"Zed." You'd think I'd suggested the Moon.  
  
"Yeah, why not?"  
  
"Because...." She doesn't like Ethiopian? It's crazy to go to Georgetown and back for lunch? It's not what we do? It's something we shouldn't do? Something she's afraid to do?  
  
She likes to see the bottom before she leaps and calculate the risks. She would be terrible in Vegas. I should take her sometime.  
  
Small steps first.  
  
"C'mon, Scully, it would be something different. I'm sick of the same old thing." The understatement of the year. And that's something, coming from me.  
  
"It would be different," she says haltingly. Finally, a bobble of the head, as much indulging me as agreeing; I know that move. "Sure."  
  
I bound out of my chair and grab my suit jacket from the back, halting its spin. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her watching me, trying to suppress a smile. She tries too hard; I can always tell when she thinks it's funny, even if she thinks I can't. When I turn back, holding the door open for her, she's still got that half-smirk on her face. The open door and inviting gesture soften the look, though, into a true smile. That's something I don't see often enough from her.  
  
****  
  
She sits toying with the remnants of her meal, moving bits of injera around the fancifully painted plate as I finish my own lunch. We've both been uncharacteristically quiet while eating; neither of us are chatty people in general, but together we usually manage a decent stream of conversation. Has my deviation from routine thrown us off so badly? This really doesn't have to be anything more than lunch--I know that's what she's wondering.  
  
After asking for the bill, Scully stares at me for a few moments before breaking the silence. "So why did we come here today?" She asks in the same tone she uses to ask what I think exsanguinated cattle or caused scorching in cornfields.  
  
Playing it casual seems a safe bet, even if it's not what I really want. I shrug. "I was sick of the same old turkey club, and I've always wanted to try this." A nice, safe, non-answer.  
  
She's not about to let me get away with that. "You didn't answer my question, Mulder."  
  
I nod and take the check as it's left on the table. After tossing in a few bills, I meet her expectant gaze. "Let's take a walk."  
  
"Mulder..." she sighs. She has no idea what that does to me.  
  
"C'mon, just for a block or two. Then we'll grab a cab. I'll answer your question while we walk."  
  
She doesn't agree, exactly, just rises and heads for the door. If that's as close to a yes as I'm getting, I'll go with it. My hand finds the small of her back as we step out the door, and she doesn't say anything when I leave it there.  
  
It is a nice day for a walk through Georgetown. The first leaves of fall are just skittering across the sidewalks yet it's warm enough that we don't need coats. A leaf blows by my foot that matches her hair.  
  
"Did you like playing in the leaves as a kid, Scully?"  
  
"Aren't you supposed to be answering my question?" She gives me a sidelong glance, but doesn't slow her pace.  
  
Yeah, that. I take a deep breath, smelling the newly-dead leaves and exhaust fumes and her perfume. "I really am sick of the same old thing, but not just the sandwich. With us lately, it's as if we're in limbo."  
  
A look of concern flickers across her face. "I know things have been different between us since--"  
  
With a wave of my hand, she silences, nodding for me to continue. "You're right that things have been different since Antarctica. At the time, it felt like the beginning of some forward momentum for us. But it's been months, and it feels like we're just content for the potential to be there without doing anything with it."  
  
"We have moved forward. We're accomplishing something with our work now, and investigated--"  
  
I cut her off again. "I'm not talking about work."  
  
We've reached a corner and have to wait for the light to cross. She takes advantage of that, turning to face me, my hand finally slipping away from her back. She doesn't say anything, just studies my face in the same methodical way she autopsies a body or picks apart my wilder theories. The light changes in our favor, and I reach around to usher her across the street, my index finger tracing her spine.  
  
"You're right," she says as we step onto the sidewalk. "We're on the precipice of something that we've been ignoring."  
  
That hangs for a moment before I respond. "What do you want to do about it?"  
  
"Ignoring an issue doesn't tend to resolve it."  
  
"No, it doesn't."  
  
"My brother told me that when he was learning to parachute, his instructor told him that the only thing to the first time was just close your eyes and step out the hatch."  
  
"Did he take the advice?"  
  
She nods. "He said it was the best advice he got all through training."  
  
I smile and extend my arm towards the street, flagging down a cab. A battered maroon Chrysler finally stops, leaves crunching under the slightly underinflated tires. I swing the door open for her. She's directing the driver back to the Hoover building before I've settled into my seat.  
  
The only sound in the car as we ride back, weaving through congested lunch-hour traffic, is Indian music, skipping badly in a CD player rigged to the dash with more wires than the Gunmen would know what to do with. Scully seems content not to speak, but as we cross the bridge over Rock Creek Park, she reaches across the cracked naugahide seat to take my hand.  
  
When we reach the Bureau, she drops my hand to dig her wallet out of her purse, handing a bill over to the driver as I hold the door open for her.  
  
The rest of our afternoon passes quietly as we shuffle paperwork. It seems that we've agreed to do something, but I'm not quite clear yet on what. That's been hanging over me as I've been trying to finish this report, and as a consequence, very little has been written.   
  
It's only when Scully shuts down her computer and reaches for her coat that she speaks to me.  
  
"Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow?"  
  
Apparently she's much clearer on what's been decided that I am. I'd believe that if it weren't for the oh-so-faint tremble in her voice at the end of her question.  
  
"Sure, Scully. Seven?"  
  
She nods. "See you tomorrow."   
  
With that, she's out the door. I click my computer to begin shut-down, because there's no way I'm getting any work done between now and seven o'clock tomorrow.  
  
****  
  
I glance at my watch while walking down the hall to her apartment. 6:58 PM. Perfect. I juggle the video and wine into one hand as I reach her door and knock. Flowers felt like overkill, but we can relax with a good movie.  
  
The door swings open to reveal Scully clad in a sky blue sweater and a pair of slacks, no shoes. Suddenly, we're back to feeling like fish out of water.  
  
Naturally, I blurt out the first thing that comes through my head. "That sweater looks great on you." At least it was something complimentary.  
  
"Thanks."   
  
Is she blushing? I've never seen her blush before. I can't believe all it took was a compliment from me.  
  
She reaches out and takes the bottle of Merlot from me, fingers brushing against mine. "This will be good with dinner. You like chicken Parmesan, I hope."  
  
"If you made it, I'll like it." This earns me another smile, but without the blush.  
  
"Have a seat," she says, heading back towards the kitchen, stocking feet soundless on her hardwood floor. "It's almost ready."  
  
I deposit the video of "Apollo 13" on top of her TV before shedding my jacket onto a chair and flopping onto the couch. I do manage to avoid the call of the remote control before she returns with a glass of wine for me.  
  
She stands beside the couch, twirling her own wineglass between thumb and forefinger. I've never seen her look so nervous, and we've been in some hellacious situations together.  
  
"I brought a movie," I say, nodding to the television. "You were trying to stay awake and watch 'Apollo 13' on the flight last month. I thought you might like to give it another try."  
  
She smiles and seems to relax. "That's great."   
  
She's interrupted by her oven timer, and I follow her into her kitchen. Even loading pasta and chicken onto plates, she moves with efficiency. I carry both plates to the table, and we eat in silence for a few moments.  
  
"This is great, Scully."  
  
"Thanks." She pauses, putting her fork down and giving me an assessing look. "What are we doing here?"  
  
I put down my own fork and take a sip of wine before answering her. "We're two people who care about each other having dinner together. What's bothering you?"  
  
For a moment she toys with her fork as she formulates an answer. I wait, knowing Scully answers questions in her own time.  
  
Finally, she sighs and says, "I'm just not sure how we're supposed to go about this. We've known each other so long, in some ways we already feel like an old married couple. But a romantic relationship is so radically different from the working relationship we have. There's no reason we can't have both, of course, but I'm just not sure how to integrate the two."  
  
Honest and to the point. I don't see what she's worried about. "You can be that truthful with me, and you're worried about how this will work?"  
  
She huffs out something close to a laugh. "I've had less-than-stellar luck in relationships with past coworkers. While I don't foresee the same sorts of problems between us, I also know I don't want to ruin a good thing for some sex."  
  
Relationships with coworkers? Plural? I want to know, but now is not the time to ask. "So we'll take things slow and play it by ear."  
  
****  
  
Waking, I notice the movie has ended, the TV now a blank blue glow. Scully's asleep, too, spooned against me on the couch. She wakes when I reach for the remote to turn off the TV.  
  
"Mmm, Mulder?"   
  
"Yeah. It's late, I should go...." I sit, pulling her up with me. "You should go to sleep."  
  
"I was asleep. You should stay."  
  
I'm pretty sure that just slipped out without her thinking--Scully's not at her wittiest when she first wakes up. The lack of logical connection between those two statements proves it.  
  
"Really?"  
  
She yawns, then furrows her brow adorably. "Just sleep. I mean what I said earlier. But there's no reason you shouldn't stay."  
  
"Okay." I stand and pull her up to her feet. "But we should sleep in the bed."  
  
"Yeah, bed." She keeps her fingers entwined with mine as she leads the way to her bedroom.  
  
Her bed is soft, with feather pillows and a down comforter. I'm burrowed deep into them, stripped to t-shirt and boxers, before she emerges from the bathroom. There's still a fleck of toothpaste at the corner of her mouth as she returns in t-shirt and shorts, looking sexier than I've ever seen her.  
  
She's quiet as she pads over to the bed and snuggles into the pillows next to me. One of her hands snakes through the blankets and finds mine. "G'night."  
  
I trace my thumb over the back of her hand and roll a bit closer to her. She's already asleep.  
  
****  
  
There's something warm and heavy draped across me when I wake, and for a split second, I panic. It only takes opening my eyes to the warm light flooding through the windows to realize that the warm weight is Scully's slumbering form. She's clinging to me like a starfish, head on my chest, arm and leg draped over me. It's a good way to wake up.  
  
I kiss the top of her head and she grumbles something incoherent while trying to burrow deeper into my chest. I can tell the exact moment she realizes that I'm not a pillow, because her eyes open wide and she jerks back in surprise. That doesn't last, long, however, and she collapses back down onto me.  
  
"'s too early. Go back to sleep."  
  
I have no objections to that. Wrapping my arms back around her, I doze off again. Some routines I can get used to.  
  
****  
End  
****


End file.
